He was part of the
miracle. She had a duty to him, and her duty was to brighten his
destiny, to give him joy, not to let him go without a charming memory
of her soft womanly acquiescences. At the same time her temperament
was aroused by his personality; and she did not forget she had a
living to earn; but still her chief concern was his satisfaction,
not her own, and her overmastering sentiment one of dutiful, nay
religious, surrender. French gratitude of the English fighter, and a
mystic, fearful allegiance to the very clement Virgin--these things
inspired her.
"Ah!" he sighed. "My throat's like leather." And seeing that she did
not follow, he added: "Thirsty." He stretched his arms. She went
to the sideboard and half filled a tumbler with soda water from the
siphon.
"Drink!" she said, as if to a child.
"Just a dash! The tiniest dash!" he pleaded in his rich voice, with a
glance at the whisky. "You don't know how it'll pull me together. You
don't know how I need it."
But she did know, and she humoured him, shaking her head
disapprovingly.
He drank and smacked his lips.
"Ah!" he breathed voluptuously, and then said in changed, playful
accents: "Your French accent is exquisite. It makes English sound
quite beautiful.
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